


the rarest thing

by yakyuu_yarou



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Modification, Bondage, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, M/M, Scarification, Sex-Favorable Zolf Smith, Subspace, magic tattoos, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 09:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakyuu_yarou/pseuds/yakyuu_yarou
Summary: Zolf loves Wilde, and he trusts him. So he‘s asked Wilde to add to his tattoos. Oscar obliges ... on his own terms.The title is, in fact, allegedly from a Wilde quote. I do not remember which one.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 17
Kudos: 53





	the rarest thing

**Author's Note:**

> The Wilde Appreciation Discord was talking about Wilde giving Zolf magic scarification tattoos (okay, the scarification part was mostly me), and once again, I went places that they probably weren‘t expecting with it. This took a While™️ to write, and it‘s done, and I‘m not editing it until some later point.  
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoy this 💙

Zolf tries to keep himself from squirming, purely out of habit, before he remembers that he can, that it won’t matter because he _can’t_ free himself. He can writhe and tug and arch all he wants, and it won’t do more than slightly distract Oscar above him. And — well. Oscar doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the low note of approval he hums out when Zolf finally relaxes and then shudders. Or by the slow, languid way his left hand trails along Zolf’s bare side, from armpit to hip, after he pulls on the soft, unyielding ropes that are tying his hands to the bedposts. (An anniversary gift from Cel, that. It’d arrived wrapped in navy-and-orange striped paper, with only Cel’s name on a label attached to the package.) The knowledge helps him more than he expected it to, and he sighs, softly and gently, as goosebumps are raised where Oscar’s hand just was and his entire body _melts_ into the mattress. The anticipation of what they’re planning — what Oscar’s planning — is still thrumming through him, but lazily now, patiently, the urgency of the tension his body’s been holding gone for the moment.

Oscar doesn’t bother telling him to relax, and Zolf is grateful for that, because he’s certain it would do the opposite, if that. Could also just have been a mood-killer — but Oscar hasn’t said it, so none of these thoughts matter, and so Zolf lets them go, lets them flutter away like Oscar’s papers sometimes do when he’s working outside and the winds at the top of their cliff catch them in all the wrong ways and—

a hand in his hair makes _that_ thought fade away, too. “Breathe”, Oscar suggests, and Zolf wants to protest, wants to tell him that this is unnecessary, they haven’t even started yet. Instead, he opens his mouth and inhales deeply, distracted by expert fingers separating the white tangles on the back of his head that life on the cliffs will never let him avoid. He hasn’t given up trying to comb them out, really, Oscar is just infinitely better at finding and removing them than he will ever be. So he shivers, pleased and loose and wholly in the moment once again, and lets out a low moan in lieu of an actual verbal answer. Oscar’ll get it.

And Oscar does, clearly, because he continues to comb through Zolf’s braid-less hair and along the back of his neck, blunt nails gently scraping along his scalp until he’s boneless and moving is the last thing on his mind. There are very few things on his mind, really, because now most of him is trying to keep from begging Wilde to get on with it. He manages (it takes a lot of effort that he will never admit to), but Oscar must be able to tell because he shushes him, gently and firmly, and flattens his hand so it rests between Zolf’s shoulder blades.

“Soon”, he offers, voice warm and certain and promising. Zolf gives a nod that’s almost sleepy in its trusting relaxation, and settles down to wait. He’s had his eyes closed since Oscar started tying him to the bed because Oscar requested it, and now he feels like opening them again would just be weird, so he doesn’t. He even keeps them closed when Oscar pats him on the back once before moving off of him, because this is accompanied by a low murmur of “stay still for me, then we can get started”, and by now Zolf doesn’t think to question him. He just obeys, waits, and breathes into the quiet evening air inside the cottage that _should_ be broken by Oscar’s steps — but it never is when they’re having sex, when Oscar’s the one who’s taken the lead. Zolf has found that he likes it quite a lot.

The silence isn’t as distracting as he used to fear it would be; instead, it gives him space to focus on his body — a puddle of looseness where there’s usually tension — and how he’s feeling — content, excited, and thrillingly apprehensive. It’s a physical sort of self-awareness he usually avoids because it leaves him _too_ aware of his robotic legs, of the bits he can’t feel like he should — in moments like these, those stay out of focus, lose their gravity.

There’s a hot breath on his neck that turns a slow, deep inhale into a sharp gasp, and Zolf wriggles a little under Oscar’s sudden weight along his back, mock-indignant. There’s a gentle laugh teasing at his hair, and he can’t help yet another shiver. It earns him a kiss to his right shoulder blade before Oscar’s steady weight lifts off his back and settles over his lower legs ( _good thing those don’t carry sensation_ , Zolf muses idly). One of Oscar’s hands comes to rest on the small of his back. His long, deceptively delicate writer’s fingers dig in expertly, the tips burrowing right into the nerves that always knot up after a day’s work, no matter how careful he tries to be. Now, though, they’ve already loosened up and the pressure he’s expected gives way to a languid stroke of blunt nails up along his spine, teasing and, Zolf knows this deep down, proud.

“You’re ready”, Oscar confirms, and Zolf lets out a quiet huff. He hears the _and so am I_ Oscar _doesn’t_ add, and he appreciates the silent reassurance. This will be intense for both of them, and that knowledge helps keep any possible uncertainty from taking root in his blissfully quiet thoughts. “Now”, Oscar starts, and Zolf can hear him lean forward a little, probably so he can get a better look at the dip between his shoulders, “I need you to do nothing except _feel_. It’ll hurt, and you will love it.” He’s smirking, the fucker, but he’s also correct, and Zolf is too pleased to snipe at him for it.

He’s expecting it to feel _odd_ , at the least, and for it to (hopefully) be painful, but he’s still surprised when the tip of Wilde’s right index finger comes to rest on his left shoulder. The touch is so light it should be tickling him, but it isn’t. Instead, it feels … tingly, like there’s a steady stream of sparks jumping between Oscar’s skin and his own. It makes him groan, which makes Oscar laugh again, the sound as soft and soothing as it is playful and promising. Zolf smiles into the pillow, and he knows Oscar can see it because Oscar‘s left hand curls around his bicep as if to steady him. (He can feel the strength in his grip, all that force Oscar _isn‘t_ using but will if he feels he needs to.) His index finger presses down, just a little, and it‘s no longer just sparks between them but proper electricity, something that turns his blood to— to lava or molten gold or something equally uselessly prosaic. He moans, now, lets go of all leftover restraint and submits to Oscar‘s clever, clever hands.

And finally, fucking _finally_ , Oscar starts writing. Zolf is tempted, momentarily, to try to suss out _what_ he‘s writing, but that would be too close to actual, active thinking, and he‘s really not feeling up to any of that. He‘s said he trusts Wilde to surprise him, and he _does_ , so he just gives himself over to the sensation of it, to the way the tip of Oscar‘s finger drags along his skin, shivers into the upstrokes and sighs on the downstrokes. His motions are slow, riding the line between intentionally sensual and carefully mindful. He hears Oscar‘s breathing slow down and feels his own do the same. He doesn‘t tense up again even though he‘s grown hot and keeps growing hotter. He can feel himself sweating, but the awareness of that is distant. It would be pensive if conscious thoughts were on the table.

Like this, Zolf just feels the way the spot where they‘re connected grows slicker, the electricity between them more pronounced, and he squirms a little. All it does is give him more friction as he moves against the sheets, and the noise that breaks out of him is nothing so much as a whine. He almost expects Oscar to push his finger down a little harder in response, but he doesn‘t, digs the nails of his other hand into Zolf‘s arm instead to convey how affected he is.

Not that he _needs_ to, because Zolf can feel him, leaning over his back as he is, and he is _definitely_ rubbing himself against Zolf‘s butt. The way the expensive fabric of Oscar‘s pants is gliding over his skin is almost more enticing than if it were his skin, and judging by the way Oscar presses himself against Zolf‘s ass more decisively the more time he spends dragging his fingertip across his shoulders, he agrees. He keeps writing steadily, though, doesn‘t pause or speed up, and after a good few minutes of silence that‘s only interrupted by the ever-present sound of the clifftop winds catching in the blinds and the slide of fabric against skin, he lifts his finger. Zolf can feel every letter even now, still trembles slightly with the echo of Oscar‘s focus, laser-sharp and inescapable — and still very much on him, he‘s reminded when Oscar leans down, leans closer still, close enough for his breath to gently move the hairs over his ear.

“You‘re doing so well“, Wilde whispers, and the way the words curl around his slowed-down thoughts makes the muscles in his back tense. A sort of punched-out whimper escapes him before he can hold it back, and Oscar‘s hips roll against his ass as if in response. Zolf smiles into the pillow, warm and pleased, but Oscar isn‘t done talking yet. Or whispering. “And you‘ll keep being good for me while I add the ink, won‘t you?“, he suggests, and Zolf finds himself nodding before he‘s even finished the sentence. He heaves out a breath, silent and shuddering, and then mutters something into the pillow that‘s incomprehensible even to him, but he knows Oscar will take it to be the agreement it is. He‘s ready.

Zolf has been promised pain, and now, _finally_ , he‘s getting what he craves. He listens as Oscar starts singing, because Oscar‘s songs generally mean _very_ good things for him, and this time, he knows exactly what‘s coming. He feels the notes, the words in a language he doesn‘t understand weaving into his thoughts and the air and then into the lines of electricity on his back, lines he knows have looked like well-healed scars until now. (He‘ll need to ask Oscar to show him an illusion of how that looked, later. Maybe in a dream.) It _burns_ , and the pain and heat radiate from across his shoulders into his muscles and nerves and into the core of him where his brain is _silent_.

He loses track of the sounds he makes, but Oscar doesn‘t react to them anyway, just keeps singing, quiet and intent, and keeps moving over the lines he‘s already written even more slowly, channelling the magical ink into the scars to turn them into a tattoo, his handwriting embedded in Zolf‘s skin forever. The realisation makes him buck a little, up into the solid sharpness of Oscar‘s hips, and he pulls on his restraints. In response, Oscar‘s hand on his arm tightens, _grips_ , and the volume of his song seems to increase. Zolf obeys the unspoken (if sung) command and settles again, lets Oscar finish. Well, finish the writing.

And he does, motions steady and magical ink flowing continuously until, at last, he pushes his index finger down one last time on a period. Then he stills, and his breaths are coming as heavily as Zolf‘s own, louder in the sudden silence, this vacuum of sound left by the fading of Oscar‘s song. His forehead is resting on the side of Zolf‘s, and Zolf can feel his smile just as easily as he can feel the old scar. In fact, his entire body is resting on Zolf‘s, which means he can tell one thing clearly through the haze that is his softened, soothed mind: Oscar, by now, is fully hard against his ass.

Naturally, Zolf squirms under him, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his lips that he knows Oscar can see. His reward is a low growl, raw but still musical somehow, and Oscar‘s hips coming down more firmly against his bum. He knows that sound, he knows what it means, so he‘s not at all surprised when there‘s a lubed-up finger sliding into him just a moment later. (Oscar‘s right index finger, he can tell, and the knowledge sends a frisson of _want_ through him.) Zolf lets out a sigh and relaxes for it, and the rest of Oscar‘s preparations are swift and efficient, if careful: three fingers (they‘re enough, they know this by now; Zolf loves the sting and magical healing is _very_ useful), a light slap to his ass (just firm enough that its sting melts into the persistent burn from the once-scars-now-tattoos), and a handwave that makes Oscar‘s trousers and pants go … somewhere else (Zolf‘s never asked and now it‘s frankly too late to). And then, _fucking_ finally, Oscar takes himself in hand, lines himself up and pushes _in_.

It‘s perfect, the special kind of intensity that only sex with Oscar has brought. The drag of skin on skin, so much _more_ of it than there was before, has him grabbing the ropes he‘s bound with and _pulling_ on them as Oscar fucks him steadily. His thrusts are deep and _hard_ and Zolf loses himself in them, in the way his chest and groin shift against the fabric of the bedsheets with every tiny (or less tiny) movement. He loses track of time completely, measures its passage only in when Oscar bottoms out, in the way his hands map out the old tattoos and dig into the new one, safe because it‘s all magic, and in the sounds they make at each other. Oscar‘s moaning into his ear and he‘s whining back at him, lost in the fog that cloaks their cottage every night, except now it‘s made of Oscar‘s arms around him.

It keeps going like that, all heat and slickness and shuddering breaths and _safety_ , until Oscar spills inside him. It makes him moan and shiver, and when Oscar slumps on top of him, all of his weight on Zolf and his sweat making his new tattoo sting in a way that sends lazy aftershocks through his system, he smiles again.

It‘s Oscar‘s voice that drags him out of his quiet pool of contentment, at least a little. “You okay?“, he asks, and “You want me to untie you?“

Zolf makes himself ponder this for a moment, because he knows it matters to Oscar, and then shakes his head minutely. “Not yet. Give me a couple of minutes.“

He feels Oscar‘s nod against his cheek, and then there‘s a hand (the fingers aren‘t slick, but that doesn‘t mean anything) on it, turning his face just a little more so Oscar can kiss him — and, more importantly, Zolf can kiss him back.

When they part, he can feel Oscar‘s smile, and he can feel him mouth _I love you_ against his lips before he moves away a little. There‘s only one thing Zolf wants to say to that, so he does. He murmurs “I love you too“ and opens his eyes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] the rarest thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23481133) by [areyouokaypanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyouokaypanda/pseuds/areyouokaypanda)
  * [the rarest thing [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27800476) by [KD reads (KDHeart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDHeart/pseuds/KD%20reads)




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